Chapter 12
Thelma slipped into the kitchen while the rest of the house still slept, the first gray light of dawn barely touching the windows.
The fire in the hearth had been stoked low, casting a warm glow across the scrubbed wooden table.
Patricia was already there, as she often was at that hour, slicing a loaf of yesterday’s bread with steady, practiced strokes.
The cook glanced up at the sound of footsteps, her hazel eyes softening when she saw who it was.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” Patricia asked, already reaching for another cup.
Thelma shook her head and took her usual seat. “Not properly. Liliana stirred twice, but she settled quickly enough.”
Patricia poured tea without asking, sliding the cup across the table along with a thick slice of bread spread with butter and a bit of honey. The simple kindness continued to make Thelma’s chest ache. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup, letting the steam rise against her face.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the faint crackle of the fire and the distant call of early birds outside. Patricia took a sip of her own tea, then set the cup down and looked at Thelma directly.
“You’ve been here some weeks now,” she said. “And I’ve held my tongue as long as I could. But I need to ask, Miss Hartley. What exactly are you running from?”
Thelma went very still.
She stared into her tea, watching the dark liquid swirl as she turned the cup slowly in her hands. The silence stretched. Her throat felt tight, as though the words she wanted to say were lodged somewhere deep inside.
She finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am not running from something, Patricia. Not exactly.” She swallowed hard. “I am running toward something I already lost. Someone I cannot get back. And every day I stay here, I feel as though I am betraying that.”
Patricia did not press. She simply reached for the teapot and poured more into both their cups, the liquid steaming gently in the quiet kitchen.
“In my experience,” she said after a long pause, “the people who end up staying at Langley are the ones who stop running long enough to notice it is not such a bad place to stop. The house has a way of holding onto people who need holding.”
Thelma looked up, meeting the cook’s steady gaze. Something in those hazel eyes told her Patricia understood more than she was saying. They sat with the words between them.
Thelma felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but blinked them back. She did not need to explain further. Patricia did not need her to.
“Thank you,” Thelma murmured at last. “For the tea. And for... this.”
Patricia gave a small nod, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint, knowing smile. “Anytime, love. The kitchen is always open before the house wakes.”
***
The household began to stir as the sun rose higher. Footsteps echoed in the corridors above. Thelma had just finished her tea when Mrs. Ames’s crisp voice drifted in from the hallway near the servants’ entrance. The housekeeper was speaking to Earnest, her tone low but clear enough to carry.
“...Her Grace has written to the Earl of Harworth,” Mrs. Ames was saying. “About his daughter, Lady Daphne. We are to prepare guest rooms. The young lady is expected before the month is out. Make certain the blue suite is aired and ready. And tell the staff to be on their best behavior. No gossip.”
Earnest’s reply was the usual calm murmur. “Very good, Mrs. Ames. I shall see to it personally.”
Thelma’s stomach dropped. She set her cup down carefully, her fingers suddenly unsteady. Lady Daphne. She had heard the name whispered once or twice among the staff, but never with any real weight.
Now it carried the unmistakable sound of intention. A guest. A courtship, perhaps. The thought sent a sharp twist through her chest that she had no right to feel.
She pushed the feeling down, thanked Patricia quietly, and made her way upstairs toward the nursery. Her steps felt heavier than they had on the way down. The bag under her bed called to her again, a silent reminder of the plan she kept delaying.
When she reached the nursery door, she paused. It stood open. Inside, the Duke was already there, sitting on the floor in his shirtsleeves, the morning light catching the dark chestnut of his hair.
Liliana had pulled herself up using his arm as support, her full little weight balanced on his wrist as she stood unsteadily. The baby babbled away with great seriousness, as though giving him very important instructions about the world.
The duke listened with the same focused attention he gave to Lord Ashmore or any estate matter, his gray-green eyes fixed on her face.
When Liliana wobbled and began to topple sideways, he caught her smoothly with his free hand, settling her back onto his lap without once breaking the rhythm of his words.
“...the rose beds may need replanting next spring,” he was saying, his deep voice calm and thoughtful as he looked up at Thelma in the doorway. “The soil has grown tired in that section. What do you think, Miss Hartley? You seem to have a good eye for these things.”
Thelma stepped inside, her heart doing an uncomfortable little flip at the sight of them together.
The powerful Duke of Langley, on the floor like any ordinary man, letting a baby use his arm as a ladder while discussing garden plans like it were the most natural thing in the world.
Liliana grinned at her and reached out with one chubby hand, still clutching the duke’s sleeve with the other.
“I think the soil does look rather exhausted there,” Thelma managed, moving closer.
She knelt beside them, close enough to catch the faint scent of sandalwood and clean linen that always seemed to cling to him.
“The roses have been struggling the last few seasons, from what I have seen on our walks. Perhaps something hardier? Or better drainage?”
The duke nodded, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer than necessary. “My thoughts exactly. I was considering lavender along the border. It might do well in that soil and would bring a different scent to the garden in summer.”
Liliana chose that moment to lunge forward again, grabbing at Thelma’s dress with both hands and nearly toppling over. The duke caught her easily, his arm brushing against Thelma’s as he steadied the baby between them.
The contact sent a warm spark racing up Thelma’s skin. She tried not to notice how close they were, how the morning light highlighted the strong line of his jaw and the way his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal corded forearms.
“She is growing more confident every day,” Thelma said softly, smoothing Liliana’s dark curls. “Yesterday she managed three steps holding onto the settee before she sat down rather suddenly.”
The duke’s mouth curved in that rare, quiet smile. “She has determination. I suspect she will be walking across the entire nursery by next month.” He looked down at the baby, who was now happily chewing on his cuff. “Won’t you, little one?”
Liliana babbled in reply, as though agreeing with him completely.
The sound pulled a genuine laugh from Thelma.
For a moment, the three of them existed in a small bubble of warmth on the nursery floor, the duke listening seriously to baby nonsense, Liliana claiming both of them as her own, and Thelma caught between the tenderness of the scene.
She knew she should not let herself feel this.
She should not notice the way the duke’s eyes softened when he looked at Liliana, or the careful way he always made space for her opinions.
But sitting there on the floor with them, the morning light warm on her shoulders, Thelma felt the pull of Langley Hall tightening around her heart once more.
And for the first time, she wondered how much longer she could keep pretending she wanted to leave.
Thelma remained on the nursery floor, her skirts pooled around her as she watched the duke with Liliana. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, catching on the fine fabric of his rolled-up shirtsleeves and the dark strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
He sat there so naturally, cross-legged on the rug like any ordinary man, while Liliana used his arm as her personal support post. The baby stood unsteadily, full weight balanced on his wrist, babbling a stream of nonsense that sounded remarkably like instructions.
The duke listened with complete seriousness, his gray-green eyes fixed on Liliana’s face as though every garbled syllable carried weight.
“Yes, I quite agree,” he said solemnly, his deep voice warm with amusement he tried to hide. “The curtains have been far too bold lately. We shall have to speak with them about proper behavior.”
Liliana let out a delighted squeal and leaned forward, once again nearly toppling. His free hand moved instantly, catching her gently and settling her back against his chest without missing a beat. The effortless grace of it made Thelma’s breath catch.
She could not look away.
He should not look like that, she thought, her fingers twisting in her skirt. Not with her. Not so... right.
She watched as Liliana patted the duke’s cheek with a sticky hand, leaving a faint smear. He did not flinch. Instead, he caught the tiny fingers gently and pretended to examine them with great interest.
“Have you been exploring the garden again this morning?” he asked the baby, joking. “I see evidence of grass on your fingers. Very thorough work.”
Liliana babbled back at him, leaning her head against his shoulder with complete trust. The duke’s hand came up automatically to support her, rubbing slow circles on her back the way Thelma had seen him do so many times now.
Thelma swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.
Three weeks. I have carried that plan for three weeks and done almost nothing with it.
Every night, she told herself tomorrow would be the day.